Paper Cuts Still Bleed
by JayyVonHatesYou
Summary: Life isn't fair. We hear it often, but rarely do we truly comprehend the affects of this truth on some lives. Ryoma was just an innocent child mixed up in something far bigger than him, bigger than them all. But it hit him hard and now he's drowning in it. And there's only one person who can keep his head above water.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Prince of Tennis.

**Summary:** Life isn't fair. We hear it often, but rarely do we truly comprehend the affects of this truth on some lives. Ryoma was just an innocent child mixed up in something far bigger than him, bigger than them all. But it hit him hard and now he's drowning in it. And there's only one person who can keep his head above water.

**Warnings: **Child abuse, rape, prostitution, swearing, character death, lemons, dark themes, OOC, slash, gang activity, inaccurate portrayal of real life situations, neglect, etc. Subject to change as I see fit.

**A/N: **This is a repost/rewrite of a story from another account. The characters and some of the ideas are the same, but I've changed their personalities, lives, and the plot significantly. Please pay special attention to the warnings, they're very prominent throughout the story. Also, please read the the A/N at the bottom, some of the things discussed there are _very important_. That being said, read and _please _review.

**Edit: **I added a few details (about a thousand words worth), but it's nothing major or plot changing.

**Paper Cuts Still Bleed**

**Chapter One  
**

**JayyVonHatesYou**

**XXxXX  
**

"Just relax," a husky voice whispered against my ear before roughly pulling on it with sharp teeth. I shuddered theatrically, trying to play my part - blushing elementary virgin reluctantly having relations with my teacher - but not really putting much into it. They never really cared anyways, as long as they got what they wanted - in other words, me. And this part never lasted long anyways.

"M-Mr. Grover," I stuttered as his hand cupped the front of my pants. I didn't need to try at this point. When things got more intense it was like my first time all over again. I was the victim, they were my controller, and they got what they wanted no matter what it was or what I wanted. I hated it, but I needed it all the same. I needed it to live.

"Shh," he whispered against my lips, a wild look in his eyes. I knew this was when things would get bad. He was about to throw control to the wind and let his urges control his body. "I'm not going to hurt you baby." A lie. It always hurt.

I couldn't hold my whimpers in as my clothes were torn from me, exposing me to him and the world. My small, childlike body was dangerously skinny and unhealthily pale. This combined with my below average height made me look years younger than my actual age, and it always appealed to these types. Pedophiles were drawn to me like bees to honey. It was the curse of my existence because I was too weak to fight and too appealing to resist.

Thin, smooth fingers began tracing the contours of my frame, beginning at my face and working their way down. He traced my button nose, my high cheekbones, my round face and strong jawline, my slitted golden eyes that were currently filled with tears I was trying not to let spill.

Next he moved his hands down, almost massaging my skin as he went if not for the roughness that would surely leave bruises later. When he got to my collarbones he followed the dip of them, pushing against the skin there as if trying to pry them from my body. It hurt and I let out a whine that nearly tore him from his trance.

When he was done there he moved on to my clearly visible ribs, tracing each and every one of them gently, like I might break. But then again, that's what he wanted. When he got to my hipbones he brought his head down, a long, wet tongue coming out to slick my skin with unwanted saliva for reasons I couldn't fathom. He blew on the lines he created afterwards and shivers raced up my spine, making me jerk gently beneath him before I could stop myself.

Finally he reached his prize: my limp member.

At age fourteen I had yet to hit puberty and my skin was still soft. He loved it, of course, they all did; it added to the innocent child image I had going for me, the idea that the one they were raping was truly the nine or ten year old I appeared to be. It disgusted me. Then again, it was for the best. I'd heard that it was hard to control your body when it first started, and if I got a hard on while one of them was touching me I don't think I'd _ever _be able to forgive myself. I doubt if I'd even be able to live with myself.

I was pulled from my thoughts by fingers wrapping around me, squeezing and tugging in a parody of the handjob I knew he wasn't giving. I bit my lip to hold back a scream as he fisted me too hard and I felt a rush of pain so intense it made me lightheaded. 'Too hard' I thought, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, 'It's too hard.' I lost my mind in the pain for a moment, and before I could stop myself I began begging pathetically. "Stop," I cried weakly. "Please stop, _please_, I'm _begging _you." I tugged at my hands, trying in vain to free them from their prison at the head of the bed, hoping I could push him away, but it was futile. He'd tied the rope too tight, and all I was doing was rubbing the skin raw.

"_Stop_!" he mocked in a shaky falsetto, his eyes darkening. He bared his teeth in a domineering smile and gave me one last hard squeeze before he released me, hands coming to rest on my thighs. They were already spread, held in place by ropes around my knees that were connected to my hands, but he forced them wide enough it felt like my legs might be torn from their sockets. I was a flexible person, but the ropes were tight and my legs didn't want to move like that.

I shut my eyes, held my breath, and clenched my teeth. Anything to bare this. If I passed out he'd finish and leave without paying, and if I made too much of a fuss he'd knock me out and do the same. I needed this money, I'd just have to deal. I always did, and this wasn't more than I was used to. If anything, Mr. Grover was one my gentler customers. Some of the fetishes the others had made this look like rainbows and daisies in comparison. I shouldn't let myself be so affected. What was _wrong _with me? I'd been doing this a lot lately.

Finally he stopped pushing and allowed my legs to go back to a more natural position. But I didn't relax just yet; things were just getting started.

His hand went back to my member, encircling it briefly, rubbing it gently and thumbing the head. He bent forward again, rubbing his nose along it sensually, and circling it with his tongue. It wasn't long before he impaled himself on it, not that that's saying much - I wasn't big, by any means, and I didn't even graze the back of his throat. He hollowed his cheeks out and sucked, swallowed, and bobbed. I was uncut, and he used the opportunity to bite at my foreskin, pulling and tugging with his teeth in what could have been a pleasant way if not for the sparse blood he was drawing. I absently wondered how men found this gratifying in the least, because to me it just felt awkward and embarrassing. I couldn't even imagine doing this to someone else. It just felt... _weird_. Skin rubbing against skin. Some people might think I just wasn't sensitive enough, but that wasn't the case at all. I was very sensitive, I just didn't like how this felt. But maybe the experience was just tainted after what I'd been through.

When he let go of me and moved his hand back a little further I understood that it was time, I needed to prepare myself. This was not my first time with Mr. Grover and I knew he was far from gentle. He liked it rough and bloody and painful; merciless.

He started out by tracing my hole, slipping the tip of a finger just inside and flicking it against the sensitive flesh there. Next he pulled away slightly to rub the skin around it, almost rhythmically massaging me in circles that he got lost in for a time. But before long I felt it - his nails, digging into my flesh and pulling harshly, scraping skin and drawing blood. My breathing sped up and I winced but remained otherwise still. He continued to scratch me, digging deeper and deeper until I knew it would need at least minor medical attention. He began wiping at the blood, collecting it on the palm of his hand to use in place of lube, and I internally shuttered when I felt the head of his hard cock press against the sensitive flesh of my raw ass.

When he pushed in, I screamed.

* * *

Four hours later it was dawn and I was just stepping out of the shower, happy to finally wash all the blood, sweat, and cum off and to get rid of the unpleasant, putrid smell that came with it. My skin was red and raw from the scalding water I'd showered with, because even after all these years I still felt dirty, and the feeling increased more and more every day. Logically I knew that I wasn't, that there was no dirt on me, that the hands had long since removed themselves... but I couldn't help but feel them on me at all hours, prying and taking and _violating_. Even when I was in an empty room I still felt them crawling on me and it made me physically sick to my stomach. It was disgusting. _I _was disgusting.

So I did everything I could to clean myself, even if it meant blistering my skin from the heat.

Mr. Grover had left roughly half an hour before, leaving me curled up and crying in the motel bed. He'd left the three hundred he owed me on the bedside table and as soon as I could pull myself together again I reached over to count it. It was all there, of course, and I'd added it to the thick wad of bills I had from past encounters.

I pulled on my clothes, choosing the somewhat bland street clothes I wore over the highly uncomfortable and provocative work clothes that lay in shreds next to the bed. My street clothes were simple and comfortable while still fashionable - faded black skinny jeans, a band tee, skater shoes, and an assortment of bracelets. It was my typical style. Some called it emo, but really it was just comfortable, practical, and cheap.

I was finally able to leave and I began the hour long walk to my third most frequented hangout: the hospital. I needed to make a payment on various bills and I wanted to visit August.

Arriving at the hospital and locating the financial department was easy. Handing over nearly two thousand dollars wasn't. I worked _so _hard for that money, and it was all disappearing so quickly. I kept a few hundred for Zach and I, of course - we had to live somehow, after all - but the rest was put towards paying August's rising hospital fees, along with my own (prostituting yourself wasn't cost free, unfortunately, and STD's weren't uncommon). I didn't regret it, of course. I would never regret the choice to keep August on life support. But I'd sold myself for that money, and with August falling deeper and deeper into his coma everyday it didn't always feel like it was paying off.

But it would one day. When he woke up and I finally got my best friend back, it would be worth it.

When I reached room 483, August's private room, I was surprised to find Dr. Politch - the same doctor who had been on August's case since day one, as well as the doctor who'd taken care of Rachel and Jason before they passed - checking the charts, a contemplative look on her face.

"Did something happen?" I asked worriedly. A few years ago I would have immediately assumed he was waking up, but I'd been through too much at this point to let myself hope.

"There's been some minor brain activity in his frontal lobe," she hummed. "It's nothing major, and I don't want you to get your hopes up, but it could be indicative that he's starting to wake up."

My face went blank, and my mind closed down. She'd said that before. A year and a half ago, she'd said that and instead they just found more tumor. And when they removed it the mild brain activity he had disappeared. I'd been so hopeful that the tumor was the problem, and removing it meant I'd get him back. So I'd agreed to the surgery, and hundreds of thousands of dollars later he was worse off than when we started. And more than that, my heart - and Zach's - was in pieces after having my hopes shattered like that.

I couldn't do that again.

"I can't do this again." I told her before rushing out of the room, down the hall, and out of the hospital. I pressed myself against the wall outside and slid down, bringing my knees to my chest and cradling them. I felt the warm, salty tears dripping down my face and I knew it would be awhile before I could go home. I couldn't let Zach find out. I couldn't let him know that his brother might have a chance, because when he didn't it would just break him all over again. And at this point, Zach really couldn't handle it. He'd been through too much, and I didn't know that I could put him back together again.

So I would let the tears run their course. I would cry out all my frustrations and sadness at August's situation, and then I'd probably cry some more for my own situation, and then I'd wash my face, go home, and be strong. Like always.

And I did. I cried over all the time I'd lost with August, all the things I'd had to do by myself that he was supposed to be there for. I cried for the lost chance at confessing my feelings, for the best friend I no longer had, the one person I could go to who would always love me, listen to me, never judge me. I cried for all the things August would never get to do now, all the dreams he had that would never be realized. I cried for Zach, the little brother he'd left behind that I couldn't fully support. I cried so hard for the half dead boy lying in that bed up there, who I knew in my heart of hearts was never going to wake up.

Then I cried for myself. I cried for the loss of the only parent figures I ever had. I cried for the daily torture I'd been forced to endure since I was a child. I cried for the family that should have loved me but didn't. I cried for the little boy locked inside me that never got his chance to live before he was pushed aside to make room for the adult I had to be. I cried for the innocence I lost that I could never get back, no matter how hard I tried. I cried for my inability to take care of Zach the way he deserved, to support him and give him the loving family I knew he so desperately needed. I cried for the life I feared would never get better because no matter how hard I tried I was just being pushed further into a corner. I cried for it all, and it was probably the most I had let myself feel in years. No, it _was _the most I'd let myself feel in years.

Before I started, there had been this unbearable, building pain in my chest that was gnawing at me, eating me from the inside out and consuming me like fire. Now I just felt numb. It was a beautiful relief, and one I craved deeply - not just at times like these, but on an almost regular basis. Now that I'd felt it, I could go back to reality.

I glanced down at my watch and wasn't too surprised when I realized it had been a good two hours. I tended to lose track of time during emotional breakdowns. But I needed to get myself under control because Zach would be waking up soon and I needed to be there for him. I couldn't afford to let him down.

Easier said than done.

"Are you okay?" a slightly accented voice inquired, tearing me from my thoughts. I looked up into the most striking pair of blue eyes I'd ever seen, tears still clinging to my lashes. It was a foreign man, or rather boy, who had inquired after me, and he was probably the most beautiful person I'd ever met. He was very slight, frail even, with shoulder length blue hair that fell in light waves and graceful features that went well with his polite and undeniably angelic demeanor.

I glanced at my hands to keep myself from staring, finding it more difficult than it should have been. "I'm fine." I bit my lip, sucking on it anxiously, before glancing back up.

"You don't look fine," he said pleasantly, eyes glinting. Aw, so he was that type. Of course. I should have known, I had more than enough experience. I didn't deal well with manipulative, sadistic people. I'd had to do it for too long now, and they always screwed me over in the end. They were out for themselves and they didn't care who they hurt in the process - the more, the better in fact. He was gorgeous, but I wasn't materialistic and if I really wanted beauty there were plenty of pretty boys with the agency who were dying to fool around with me, no strings attached.

"I am," I replied shortly, tone daring him to question me farther. He would, though, if I let him. I wouldn't.

I stood abruptly and nodded to him, swiping the back of my hand over my cheeks to wipe the remnants of tears before I strode off. "Wait," he called after me, and against my better judgement I turned. "My name is Seiichi. Seiichi Yukimura." Why was he telling me this? I'd never see him again. I didn't _want _to see him again.

I paused, considering, before I made what would turn out to be a poor decision. "Ryoma Echizen." I walked away before I could see the startled expression on his face.

* * *

Zach and I lived in a shed behind the main house. It was actually nicer than it sounded; it had running water, electricity, a small bathroom. It was almost an unattached bedroom, except that they'd never give us anything that nice. I'd set it up nicely with a giant rug to cover the cement floor, bunk beds, a desk, a TV, an old computer, and even a make-shift kitchen. It wasn't much, but for the two of us it was home.

When I got back Zach was just waking up. His hair was tousled, his clothes askew, and his eyes half-lidded. He was nowhere near alert enough to notice the subtle signs I'd been crying.

"Morning Ryoma," he muttered, rubbing at his eyes as he stretched.

"Morning Zach," I replied, obediently wondering over when he held his arms out for a hug. Zach was a very affectionate person, and seeing as I was the only person he had consistent contact with it was only natural that he'd turn to me to fulfill that need. I hated touch, but I found that I didn't mind so much with him because it didn't make me feel... dirty. _Used_. I didn't sense any ulterior motives in him, and I knew he didn't have any. Zach wasn't innocent, per se, but he was certainly nothing like those men who hurt me.

"Did you see August?" he asked, obviously wondering where I'd been. So maybe he'd been awake for a little longer than I'd thought.

"Yeah." I paused. I knew I should tell him, but I just couldn't. "He hasn't changed."

I felt him still on the bed beside me and when I glanced over his eyes were narrowed. "You're not telling me something," he accused, voice hurt. Did I tell him? Did I risk hurting him like that? We'd promised each other not to keep any secrets, but he was just going to be inevitably disappointed when his brother didn't wake up. "Ryoma!" he barked, obviously ready to force me. And he could force me, I knew. It wouldn't be hard.

"Fine," I said, turning away. "There was some brain activity... but Dr. Politch said it's probably nothing, so just forget it happened."

"Oh my God, really?" he exclaimed, mood doing a complete one eighty. He was practically bouncing where he sat. "That's great!"

"No, Zach, it's not! Because it doesn't mean anything! Don't you remember what happened last time? He just got worse! And all it did was hurt us. Do you really want to go through that again? Do you even remember how bad you got?" After the surgery Zach had been in a bad place. He wanted his brother back, but suddenly he was farther than ever. And the hope he'd had in his heart since the accident, that had disappeared. And it was the only thing keeping him afloat. So yeah, after the surgery he'd been bad. And I was the one who had to pick up the pieces, even though I was broken too.

"It won't be like that though," he whispered, wrapping his arms around himself. "He'll wake up this time." His voice was small, childlike. It broke my heart.

"No Zach. Don't do this to yourself," I begged. I leaned forward, pulling him against my chest and smoothing his hair. He needed to stop, for both of us. He couldn't do this again. He pushed himself against me, curling into my frame and clinging like the lost child he was. "I know you want him back." I know I'm not enough. "But... he's gone. Probably for good. And the sooner we move on the less it will hurt in the end."

"But I just want my brother back," he cried. His whole body was trembling and I knew he was on the verge of sobbing.

"I know, baby. I know. I want him back too," I whispered.

**XXxXX  
**

**A/N:** So there you go. I know it doesn't make a lot of sense, but this happens just after the beginning of the story - think of it as a kind of prologue - and the real beginning will start next chapter. On **OC's**: Zach is a main character, but I swear he's not a Gary Stu and him and Ryoma _do not _end up together. August is a main plot element, but not really a main character - even if it may seem like it at first. On **pairings**: this will most likely be Thrill, Royal, Sensual, or _possibly _OT3. Feel free to give your input, even if you want a different pairing. If you make a good enough argument you just might get what you want. On a **beta**: I do need one. I'm looking for someone who can beta for plot, not grammar. I need someone to tell me how crappy my ideas are, say yay or nay, etc. And also someone who can watch for holes. If you're interested, leave a review or PM me. We'll see if you're up for the job. Finally, on **updates**: new chapters will probably come every couple of weeks, and chapters will probably be between 3k and 10k - but if I feel like it's too long I'll probably split it up.

Thanks for reading and please review!

**JayyVonHatesYou**


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